Grown-ups Can Do Just About Anything

No shame in the game.

My kids have a great book called If You Come to Earth, by Sophie Blackall. I recommend it to anyone with kids, or I suppose just anyone. In the book a little boy named Quinn writes a letter to aliens and tells them all they’ll need to know if they decide to visit our planet. It’s beautifully illustrated, every page a thoughtful musing on humanity.

One of my many favorite moments in the book is when Quinn explains to the aliens that “Babies are not very good at anything. Kids are good at lots of things. Grown-ups can do just about anything until they are really, really old. But by then the babies are grown up and can help.”

I think I’ve entered that phase of my life.

I’m the baby who’s grown up and can help. So I’m trying, as is my sister. It’s our turn.

My mother’s body keeps breaking down on her. She’s not “really really” old in any way, but the past few years haven’t been kind. She’s an incredibly private person, who no doubt hates that I’m writing about her here, so I’m not going to pry open her medical files; but mobility has become an issue and she’s in a lot of pain.

She’s impressed me with her attitude about it all, but I can tell it saps her spirit, and why wouldn’t it? It’s all depressing as hell. When I take her to an appointment, or even just out for lunch, I can tell that she hates to struggle across a lobby, to labor up staircases.

But even though I’m the quote unquote grown-up child helping the quote unquote old person, she’s still my mom. She’ll never take her hand off the wheel. Which is why she signed me up for Pilates.

Pilates is the only relief my mother gets from chronic pain. She’s got one of those contraptions with springs in the basement and an instructor comes over on a regular basis and helps my mom with mobility. It’s a godsend.

I only wish I had started this when I was younger, she told me once. So, like the good mother she is, she made sure I did.

And I love it.

Not to brag, but my back has been fucked since childhood. Couple that with the myriad of soccer injuries I’ve accrued over the years, and my descent from bed every morning sounds like a drive-by shooting. My only wish is that a team of four could take my arms and legs upon each new dawn, then flap me wildly, like they’re drying a bed sheet in a field; stretch me out and crack me like a medieval wrack, then send me out into the world three inches taller. But I don’t have the budget for that. And I’m often in a lot of pain myself. Middle-age, baby! So, for now Pilates will have to do.

Once a week I traipse to a studio in an industrial building by the Platte River, where a woman named Jasmine asks me how my body is feeling. Then, depending on my answer, she goes right at the source of the pain with orbs, and blocks, and spheres. She places my arms and legs in straps attached to springs and manipulates me with expert efficiency, like a skilled chef breaking down a hen.

Bougie?

Of course.

Do I feel great every time I walk out of that studio?

You bet your ass I do.

And you could bet that ass far easier if you would work those glutes every once in a while. Jasmine can help you with that. Just saying. She’s also highly entertaining. Jasmine told me the the funniest story I’ve heard in years the other day. Which I will now relate here.

Jasmine is what I would call a global citizen. She was born in Colombia, manages rental properties in Hawaii, and regularly DJs in Southeast Asia. Pilates has provided her with a life where she can pack up and work anywhere, and she seems to be taking advantage. I’m jealous.

A few sessions back, Jasmine shared with me that she and her husband were hosting visitors from Japan, two teenage boys and their parents, cousins of cousins, she said. I nodded as the straps around my ankles snapped my body into proper birthing position. This all seemed very Jasmine. She marveled how the boys staying with her – ages 16 and 18 – seemed so naive compared to American teens.

There had recently been a shooting at at a nearby high school because America rules, and we talked about how these Japanese boys don’t know anything about that reality. They don’t have to fear that. We railed at the futility and ineptitude of American leadership like libtards doing Pilates, and when Jasmine shared that one of her Japanese visitors wore a Mickey Mouse t-shirt most days, I smiled. I wished American kids could hold onto their innocence longer.

A session or two later, I inquired about the Japanese visitors, curious to know how the trip had wound down for those sweet, sweet boys.

“Turns out they’re not so innocent,” she said.

Jasmine told me how one night at 3 a.m., the younger of the two teenage boys burst into her and her husband’s bedroom saying there was a leak in the ceiling, and that his brother was nowhere to be found. They headed to the guest bedroom where, sure enough, water was leaking down through a vent in the ceiling. They raced to the bathroom directly above the guest room, only to find water gushing out beneath the door. They tried the knob, but it was locked from the inside, so they banged and banged on the door, to no answer. They were beginning to fear the worst.

“I was worried the older brother had committed suicide in there,” she confessed.

She and her husband burst down the door, only to find the eighteen-year-old lying in an overflowing bathtub, headphones on, eyes closed, blissfully jerking off.

Holy shit.

They ran to the bath and turned off the water, at which point the Japanese teen snapped out of his reverie, horrified, and leapt out of the tub to cover his manhood. They demanded to know what the boy was thinking, but he had no response. How could he? He was full bat. There’s no thinking going on then, it’s all frontal lobe. So, he ran to the kitchen where he grabbed a roll of paper towels, then returned to help clean up. My dude, Jasmine said, paper towels aren’t going to cut it in this situation; politely get the fuck out.

We’ll take it from here.

At this point I was laughing so hard my suspended legs whipped backwards, and I executed a sort-of lateral flip-kick, landing on the Pilates table in a perfect split. Jasmine promptly logged my progress in a secret Pilates database you don’t know about because you’re not as good as I am, then we high-fived.

We speculated as to what homeboy could have been thinking besides standard pervy teen stuff, and Jasmine charitably speculated that maybe this kid was operating on the assumption that American bathrooms are like a lot of Asian bathrooms, with a drain in the center of a sloping floor. Maybe he thought if the water overflowed, so what? It would just drain away. It was a kind interpretation. But the fact remained, dude had gotten so wrapped up in jackhammering himself he’d flooded a townhouse.

I wondered what song he was listening to.

Jasmine was grateful that we live in dry Colorado. There was some staining on the ceiling but no real damage. In the Pacific Northwest? Forget about it. That’s mold-bait; you’re ripping out drywall and ceilings, an enormously costly crank-sesh. As it was, the father of the teens apologized profusely, left $500 for unforeseen expenditures, then got his boys the fuck back to Tokyo.

As funny as it all was, Jasmine felt bad for the kid. He was already shy, she said, but after that night, he wouldn’t say a word or make eye-contact with anyone. We talked about the prevalence of shame in Japanese culture, and how this dude would likely be haunted by that night in the bathtub for the rest of his life, his horrific American Pie moment.

It made me feel sad for the dude too. In those moments it’s impossible not to feel like your world is collapsing. Like everything has fallen apart, irreparably. You’re incapable of zooming out and realizing that it’s all actually pretty funny. Or even if it’s not funny, even if it’s just awful, it’s all part of life. Unfair, incomprehensible, beautiful, silly life.

As I left Pilates that day, feeling three inches taller, and in significantly less pain than when I walked in, I couldn’t stop thinking about Jasmine’s story. I wished I could sit homeboy down and help him laugh at himself. Use my comedy powers to hold his hand - after he washed it – and tell him not to take things so seriously. People jerk off. In tubs. All the time. Monitor the water levels next time, my guy. You got this.

The humiliations that come with the human condition are just part of the human condition. People understand, people forgive. Jasmine already had. And it was her bathtub.

I wish I could help my mom see that too, when she’s making an unnecessary joke about her handicapped parking placard. Or when I am. I wish I could help us both understand that this also is part of the story, as awful as it all is. It’s just part. Everyone gets it. We laugh at funny stories at Pilates because they’re relatable; we hold the door for people who need more time because one day we will too. I know that, my mom knows that, but it’s hard to exist in that head space all the time.

I wish I could add a page to that book If You Come to Earth.

I would write:

When you come to earth, I hope you don’t sweat the small stuff. And if you ever leave earth, hopefully a long time from now, I hope you leave the pain behind too.

Maybe that would help.

Who knows.

I hate that my mom is going through this. I’m trying my best to help, but I don’t even know if I’m doing any good. But if nothing else, at least I can give her a few laughs here and there. That is something I know I can do. Because I’m a grown-up, and grown-ups can do just about anything.

For now.

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November Shows!

Feeling good and sad and bittersweet from my essay? Perfect! Let’s talk comedy!

I’m only leaving town once this month, and that’s just fine by me. Especially, because I’m heading to beautiful St. Louis for the Flyover Comedy Festival, an absolute banger of a comedy hootenanny in the ancestral homeland of my grandmother, Estelle Provol.

My big headlining show is Thursday, November 13^th at 10 p.m. You read that right. 10 p.m. The dead of night. Guys, I get it. That’s a late one. But we can do this. We’re old, but we’re not cooked. Together we can last until 11:30 p.m. I swear to god we can do it. Get tickets now.

November 13 - St. Louis, MO - Flyover Comedy Festival - Tix

DENVER HEADLINING SHOW ALERT

Denverado! I’m doing a big show at the Skylark on South Broadway Saturday, November 22^nd. Haven’t done a headlining show in Denver in a hot, hot minute, because I travel a ton for comedy, so when I’m home it’s like what am I going to headline again? I want to hang with my kids. Still, I do get the itch sometimes. So if you’ve got the itch for some ACH in your life, let this be that excuse. Love to see you on South Broadway, my ancestral homeland. This show is going to rule.

November 22 - Denver, CO - Skylark - Tix

Then it’s the Home for the Holidays Grawlix, my favorite Grawlix of the year, on November 29^th at the Bug Theater. Many great Denver-born-and-bred comedians diaspora across the country, then at Thanksgiving they return to their ancestral homeland, where we promptly tear them away from their dinner table and make them perform. We’ve already got one KILLER SECRET GUEST LINED UP. Who will it be? Get tix now and find out!

November 29 - Denver, CO - Grawlix, Bug Theater - Tix

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What In the Actual Fuck?!

And now for a new segment, entitled What In the Actual Fuck!

Gang, did you know that Substack lets you see where your followers are from? They list them state by state, country by country, continent by continent, planet by planet! And I’m so thrilled to have readers all over the U.S., and the world! So far no one from another planet, but fingers crossed!

But for now, let’s focus on America, my current homeland.

Did you know there are fifteen states where nobody is reading this? Fifteen! Frankly, I find that outrageous. I mean what in the actual fuck? So we’re going to fix that, state by state, until I have followers in all 50 states, so help me god. Because then said followers can show up to shows when I tour there, and I can quit social media entirely, and I can just write this Substack, then go hike a bunch, and really let my beard go and smile and nod at you like that Jeremiah Johnson meme.

First up: Connecticut. I mean what in the actual fuck? Really? You’re going to do me like that? Not one person from your beautiful state is reading this Substack?! I spent time in Connecticut. Four years in college at Wesleyan University. We’re talking boots on the ground. My mailing address was once in Connecticut. It still pops up sometimes, on those weird bank things where they make sure you’re not a robot. Which one of these addresses have you not lived at? That type of thing. Sometimes I’ll see my old Wesleyan address on there, and I’ll smile. Because it reminds me of how fond I am of Connecticut.

New York readers, Massachusetts readers, can you talk to your neighbor? Tell them your boy ACH is a good read. Tell them he misses the autumn foliage. Tell them he misses a good chicken parm from an Italian deli, preferably Sicilian. Tell them he never really cared for Hartford, but he always thought that old Colt 45 factory on the side of the highway was dope as hell. Tell them to subscribe. I have a Connecticut-shaped hole in my heart. And the only way I can fix it is by picking up readers who live there.

Are you that reader, dear reader? Are you?

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The Monthly Clip (sketch)

God damn, Adam. Great sketch. Way to go.

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Before you go, give the ole socials a follow

Thanks so much for reading these every month, and a sincere thanks to all of you who show up to my shows! It means the world. More and more people are coming out all the time. I’d love to be a comic who “sells out” shows the second they go on sale, instead of a comic who sweats numbers until the second he goes on stage. So I appreciate all your support and word of mouth. It all starts with you guys. It really does. Now let this road road run straight through Connecticut.

Until next month!